


de profundis clamavi ad te, domine

by vlieger



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the bowels of summer, LA reminds John of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	de profundis clamavi ad te, domine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EleanorJane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EleanorJane/gifts).



El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles del Río de Porciúncula. Los Angeles. The City of Angels.

Not entirely accurate. John prefers LA. It's simple, neutral, and closer, though not close at all, to reflecting the writhing reality of half-breeds crawling the city.

In the bowels of summer, LA reminds John of Hell. That same vicious orange light, that same stench of grime and stale death, that same heat forcing its way down his throat. He gets used to it like he gets used to riding in and out of Hell, the tickle of water lacing his ankles, soft feline bones clicking beneath the pads of his fingers. That is to say, he fucking hates it, and fuck anyone who calls this fate, this thing that's inescapable and futile as the Silk Cuts slithering their way down his trachea, fitting as the way they slot between the joints in his fingers.

 

His line of work isn't what you'd call the most predictable. So, predictably, there are times even John, with all his long haggard years of experience, winds up propelling too fast into a brick wall, trying to blink through the stars to see the fire, the slow-melting ash as another son-of-a-bitch half-caste demon drags its sorry ass back down to Hell.

This is how he meets Gabriel.

He blinks, and it's black, blinks again, and the dirty LA sun is eclipsed by the shadowed swell and dip, swell and dip of wings. There is a hand splayed against his chest, and bare toes nudging his hips. "Oh," says the angel, half-angel, leaning in close. His hair tickles the bridge of John's nose. "Oh, but you, you, John Constantine. I can't help you."

"I don't recall asking for any fucking help," says John, sitting up and dislodging the hand from his chest.

"Everyone needs help," says the angel. "Of course, sometimes those who need it most are beyond it."

"Fuck you," says John. "Who are you?"

"Gabriel," says the angel.

"Okay," says John. "Fuck you, Gabriel."

 

"John," says Gabriel. He's sitting against the wall opposite where John is slumped; three feet, give or take, from the door to his apartment. His wings hover above him like afterthoughts, rifling the dusty air with rippling moth-wing breezes. "John, John, John. Let me explain something to you. The Grace of God is a gift. It is not earned. It is freely bestowed, and all you have to do to hold onto it is live the life He showed you. All you have to do, John, is respect Him. It's like the divine equivalent of human etiquette. You don't throw a gift back in the face of the giver."

"God's a stubborn-ass kid," rasps John, fumbling for his cigarettes.

"God loved you," says Gabriel. "You spurned Him. You're still spurning him."

"If we're talking about etiquette here," says John, "What about everything I've done for your team? All the scales I've tipped in your favour?"

"You think it's about some wager?" whispers Gabriel, leaning closer. His wings stutter against the peeling wallpaper. "You think your selfish little joyrides measure up to the Grace of God?"

"I think I'm not going to listen to your half-breed authority on this," says John, climbing to his feet. "You understand."

"You can't win this, John," says Gabriel. He stays sitting, head tipped back to watch John through amused, lidded eyes. "You were worthy, once."

John pushes the key into his door with a muted crackle.

"Every day you're just a little step closer to Hell," says Gabriel softly. "One sure, self-interested step at a time."

"You talk it," says John, turning beneath the etched wooden doorframe, "But can you walk it?"

Gabriel is smiling, all childish, benevolent glee, as he slams the door.

 

"Have you ever been to Church, John?" asks Gabriel as John steps into the corridor.

"Have you got anything better to do than hang around outside my apartment?"

"Not until you let me in," says Gabriel, falling into step beside John. "I wish you would, John. I do so love watching you sluice your way into another day. Like a newborn child, still innocent, still with hope for salvation, before you blink fully awake. It gives me such pleasure."

"I'm sure it does, you sick bastard," says John.

"I just like seeing the goodness," says Gabriel. "I can be as terribly romantic as any human."

"You don't even know what romance is," says John.

"Be that as it may," says Gabriel, "I don't believe you do, either."

"I can fathom it," says John.

"Church, John," says Gabriel.

"I'm a man of action, not prayer," says John. "Isn't that what you're all about?"

"John." Gabriel sighs. "John. You never will understand."

"Actions speak louder than words," says John.

"And motivation speaks louder than action," says Gabriel. "It's the staple of all existence, John, not just human."

"Bullshit," says John. "You do the right thing, you do the right thing."

"You do the selfish thing, you do the wrong thing," says Gabriel. "You should go to Church, John. Maybe then you'll understand. Sit in the quiet and feel His love."

"Spare me," says John. He rolls his eyes as they hit the sidewalk.

Gabriel is dressed sharp: clean pinstripe suit, pale green tie. His shoes reflect the clouded sunlight. "Ah," he says, stretching his wings luxuriously and eyeing the cab. "Your ride is here."

"Don't come to my apartment anymore," says John, pulling open the passenger door. Chas is bent almost double, blinking curiously up at them.

"But John, however will I speak to you?" Gabriel pouts.

"Don't," advises John, and slips inside, pulling the door shut.

 

Later, John thinks about letting Gabriel into his apartment, and it's as lovely as it is repulsive: his bone-white fingers curled through the wire barricading John's bedroom from the rest of the place, his over-bright angel eyes following John through the fall of his hair. The self-important smirk is easy to wipe away, in his imagination, the throaty sibilant hiss of _yes, yes,_ to everything, all of it, his divine salvation and his earthly release, easy to draw out and swallow.

The crux of it all, though, is that Gabriel is not God, not even an angel.

Gabriel is a superior, hypocritical, asshole half-breed, and he doesn't know shit.

John goes out. He fucks a girl in a bathroom stall, clothes still on, breathing damp against the top of her head, one hand buried in her hair.

Then he goes to see Gabriel.

 

"Why, John," says Gabriel. He tucks his fingers against his chin, bent back and over-extended, a thin little ironic movement brushing against the sullied curve of his lips. His eyes rake slowly over John. "Dear, dear, I so honestly believed you were determined to barter your way back into Heaven."

"Cut the crap, Gabriel," says John. "If God took the celibacy thing seriously, Heaven would be out of business."

"Quite," says Gabriel, holding himself still as John sinks into the chair closest to the fire. His spine is dipped languidly into the curious duck of his head, held-aloft and effortless, like he's standing _en pointe_. "Was she beautiful, John?"

"Jealous?" says John, shrugging off his coat and shaking it out. The fire hisses.

Gabriel twists his neck thoughtfully. "I rather think that shade of lipstick is too pale for me," he says.

John reaches up to wipe his cheek.

Gabriel chuckles, moving to stand before John.

John sighs. "Can't let me be comfortable for five minutes, can you," he mutters, standing and stretching his arms down towards the fire, palms outwards.

"Do you think I'm pretty, John?" whispers Gabriel. His lips are dry, skimming over John's cheek. "Do you think for all God's love, for all the limitless Grace at His fingertips, He chose this vessel just as carefully as He chose to make me an instrument of His will?"

"I think God had nothing to do with you, half-breed," says John. He dips his head to smirk against the precipice hollowing out Gabriel's eye.

"God has a plan for everyone, John," says Gabriel. He leans back. "Even you. Even." He pauses, tilting his head and smiling as the hair drops away from his temple. "Even if it is only to watch you as you descend."

John watches the sleek dark trajectory of Gabriel's wings, extending and quivering like a mirror of his paper-sharp smile: quietly, gracefully, _beautifully_ vindictive.

"You're real pretty, Gabriel," he says, "But you're a screw-up, just like the rest of the half-castes crawling this city. If God chose this vessel, it's about the only nice thing he did for you."

"You can't wound me, John," says Gabriel. He looks delighted, sinking into a chair and leaning forward over his knees. "I feel none of your petty vanities, your indulgent self-doubt." He drops his voice, tucking his tongue between the ridges of his teeth. "I know God loves me as surely as I know that you, John Constantine, are bound for Hell."

 

It's three months before John visits the library again. Even then it's just a whim, just a quick stop-by, Chas waiting with the engine running. He strides in and says, drawing in a mouthful of smoke around an insistent scratching cough, "You know I think you're full of shit. I'll get there, one way or another."

He spits out the words like the vicious curve of filth-ridden LA streets. Hoping is one thing. Believing is something else entirely.

Gabriel turns to look at him, twisting his neck angel-lithe over his shoulder. His hair sheaths the knife-edge cut of his cheek like corn silk shining dully in the firelight: deceptive, deadly. "You might want to get that cough looked at, John," he says, smiling sweetly through the arc of his wings.


End file.
